


A Very Good Night Indeed

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff. I often let Lestrade take the emotional lead--even if he's not the experienced player on the gay team, he seems likely to be the more experienced player in total, and by far the more at ease with romance. But there are good reasons to play it the other way around a bit. So this story mixes it up a little. Mycroft may not be a pillar of swaggering male confidence, but he's definitely a bit more together about this than Lestrade...poor behbehs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Good Night Indeed

It was just like dealing with Putin, Mycroft assured himself. Never show fear. Never hesitate. It’s all in the illusion of control.

“I thought perhaps we might meet for dinner,” he said to Lestrade. He maintained strict control over his body language, determined to give away nothing—especially not the rabid drug-crazed killer butterflies dog-fighting like WWI flying aces in his stomach. “There’s a new place I think you might like: Northern Italian cuisine. They make a braised lamb shank entre with a creamed sauce that is quite impressive.”

Lestrade looked at him as though he’d turned green and grown antennae. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” Mycroft pursed his lips slightly, feeling more insecure than ever. “Dinner. The third meal of the day, unless you’re on a diet or trapped in the middle of a difficult negotiation, in which case it may not occur in the first place. Still, most people have encountered the notion at least once or twice in their lives.”

“No need to get sarky,” Lestrade said, sternly. “I may not be a Holmes, but I’m not a complete idiot. Just…dinner? With you?”

“I assure you, I do occasionally indulge,” Mycroft snapped. “Much though my brother likes suggesting I ought not.”

“Your brother’s a berk,” Lestrade said, dismissively, frowning as he studied Mycroft intently. “Is something up? Should I be ready to take notes? I can tag Sherlock and we can team-brainstorm, if you like.”

“No!” Mycroft fought back a desire to snarl and stomp his feet. He drew a breath, stood taller, and forced himself to relax. “No,” he said again, more placidly. “I was just thinking it would be…a good idea. Building bridges. Cementing our friendship.”

Lestrade frowned, and cocked his head. “Erm. Okay. I…didn’t know we were…friends. I mean—“ He collected himself, and went on, stumbling as he spoke,  “I mean, I kind of think of you as a friend, sort of. I suppose. But—I didn’t think you—I mean.” He scowled. “Holmeses don’t make friends, right?”

Mycroft wished the butterflies would quit with the barrel rolls and tail-gunner combat mode. He silenced the panicked hermit screaming and the sobbing teenager wailing, and said, calmly, “Well, we’re not known for it—but exceptions can be made.”

“Exceptions?”

“Am I not speaking clearly enough?”

Lestrade scowled down at his folders and tablets. “No. I mean, I can hear you just fine. It just doesn’t make much sense.”

Mycroft’s temper did snap, then, for one fleeting second. “What part of ‘Would you go out to dinner with me?’ don’t you understand?”

Lestrade’s devil of a sense of humor caught him, and he chuckled. “The ‘you,’ the ‘me,’ and the ‘dinner.’ The rest came through just hunky-dory.” He grinned, a dazzling smile that always made Mycroft’s pulse pick up a bit. “Really—you want to go out to dinner with me?”

“Yes. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Just because….friends?”

No, you bloody goldfish, Mycroft thought. Because I am depressingly besotted, though God alone knows why. It doesn’t take a genius to accept or turn down an invitation to dinner…. He closed his eyes, forced himself back into the calm, steady, authoritative mode that saw him through so many high-stress situations, and said, calmly, “Yes. Because, as you so quaintly put it, ‘friends.’ Do you accept, Inspector?”

Lestrade had the infuriating audacity to mull it over, clearly considering it from several angles. Then, instead of agreeing, he said, “Fancy dress?”

“If you mean must you wear a costume for a masquerade, no. If you mean the management will require you to wear a tie and a dinner jacket—also no. You’ll feel more at home if you wear your go-to-court outfit, though. It’s moderately upmarket. Modestly so—you could get away with jeans and a superb jacket, if you’ve got the figure and charisma to pull it off. But a t-shirt and shorts won’t do.”

“Not the weather for shorts and a t,” Lestrade said, straight-faced but eyes laughing. “So. Nice outfit, fancy dinner. Just friends.”

Mycroft blinked—a slow, lizard-like blink that often served to buy him time and discourage too-curious subordinates. “As I said.”

“Good friends, or just, oh…just sort of friends feeling their way?”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Mycroft said. For a moment his temper roared, and he wanted to snap back savagely, as he had been known to do with others. The humiliation he’d feel at making such a fool of himself was just enough to make him rein in his words. He nodded, and began gathering his papers. “Very well. My apologies. I didn’t mean to encroach on your boundaries.” He tucked the last of the papers into his briefcase and turned to leave.

“Wait-wait-wait,” Lestrade said, sounding suddenly unhappy. “Look, I didn’t mean to poke fun. Just—wasn’t expecting it, you know? I’m not even sure why… I mean…why me?”

Mycroft gathered his dignity. “I have come to appreciate your finer qualities,” he said.

“Sounds like what a bloke says when he’s on the pull and trying to get a girl to go out wi’ him,” Lestrade said, sniggering.

The silence stood, ice cold. Mycroft managed not to leak any of the five million hurt, angry, forlorn, lustful, egocentric, needy things he felt, drawing the mantle of ice around himself. Body language—it all came down to body language. “Yes. Well. As it’s reached the point of being a bit embarrassing for both of us, perhaps we’d best just leave the topic and move along.” He turned to leave.

“Wait…” Lestrade sounded bewildered, uneasy—and determined to see his way through to some kind of clarity. “I mean—me? I know you’re… But… I’m not… I mean…I haven’t…” He made himself stop, and tried again, forcing a full sentence out a word at a time. “I’m sorry, Mycroft, I’m not offended, but I am confused. Are you asking me out for…” He flinched at his own hesitation, and said, “Sorry. Bugger, it sounds stupid at our age. But—was that an invite to a date?” He said “date” much the way a ten-year-old boy said “girls.” The dismay was palpable.

“My apologies. I obviously allowed my optimism that we might at the least enjoy a meal in good company to get the better of me,” Mycroft drawled. “My mistake.”

“No-no-no,” Lestrade said. “I’m not…ok, I’m not freaked, all right? At least not about—that. It’s just, I mean—‘dates.’ They’re so…I don’t know. Teenagers go on dates. Twenty-somethings who have no notion of how to actually have fun go on dates. Real people—adults—they just go out and enjoy themselves, and what happens happens, yeah?”

“And you can’t enjoy yourself over a good dinner?”

“With you?”

“Again, my mistake. I’ll see if Sherlock wants to meet you over the braised lamb shanks.”

Lestrade laughed. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Rather go out to dinner with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Even…” Mycroft licked his lips. “I will admit, while I hope to find we are indeed friends—well….”

Lestrade stood and set himself, arms crossed, studying the other man. “Really?”

Mycroft tipped his head. “It had occurred to me to at least explore the option.”

The other man’s eyes were dark, and uncertain. “Never—I really never have. Before, I mean. Done anything.”

“Have you ever thought about it?” Mycroft managed to keep his voice calm and casual.

Lestrade shrugged, and gave a crooked grin. “Horn-dog, me,” he said, apologetically. “Yeah. Thought about it sometimes.”

Mycroft felt his heart leap. “Curious?”

Lestrade licked his lips. “Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded. “If you go to dinner, I assure you, I will have no expectations. But—the option is open, if you’re interested.”

“Option?”

“For us to explore more than Northern Italian cuisine.”

Lestrade swallowed, and fidgeted, rocking from foot to foot. “Ah…”

“It’s up to you.”

Lestrade nodded.

The thoughts hung, uneasy and unsettling, the issue unresolved.

Mycroft took a deep breath, and put his briefcase on the desk between them. “If you’d like—you can test the water,” he said, keeping his tones calm and dispassionate. “Before you decide.”

Lestrade’s head came up, and his eyes went dark. He didn’t speak, but something shifted—in his posture, in his expression. He was ready…

Mycroft gathered his nerve and stepped forward. Moving slowly, without threat, he let his hand rise and slip around Lestrade’s neck, cradling the back of his skull. He kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade’s. “Yes?”

Lestrade gave a quick, sharp nod.

Mycroft had never felt so aware before of another’s inexperience—another’s innocence. He drew close, let his eyes drift shut, and breathed gently over Lestrade’s mouth. He grazed his lips over the other man’s. He gently nibbled at Lestrade’s lower lip with a soft, toothless touch.

Lestrade drew a sharp breath in, then let it out slowly. His hands came up to hold Mycroft’s upper arms for stability. He leaned in, letting his face brush Mycroft’s. Brow to brow. Then cheek to cheek. Then, delicately, shyly, he let his lips meet Mycroft’s again, and let them open.

Mycroft leaned into the kiss with quiet confidence, determined that if this failed to please, it would be through no lack of skill or effort on his part. It had been years since he’d kissed—years since he’d attempted any kind of ongoing relationship. It had taken him years since meeting Lestrade to decide on tonight’s invitation—and it had taken him farther than he’d planned or intended to go this soon. But here they were, and of the two Lestrade was the beginner. Mycroft kissed him the way he wished he’d first been kissed: with tenderness and desire and longing and patience.

When they were done, it ended on a shaky sigh for both of them.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said, but it was more prayer than curse. “Bloody, bloody hell, Holmes.”

“Rather,” Mycroft murmured. He straightened and stepped back. “The invitation is open, if you’re interested. I’ve made reservations at La Cantina at eight on Friday night. I can change them if that does’t suit your schedule. And—we can just have dinner, if that’s all you’re interested in. I’m serious, Inspector—I would like to count you as a friend.” He re-collected his briefcase and headed for the door, looking back only as he reached the threshold. “Are you all right? I hope I didn’t offend.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No. No offense.” He gave a crooked, confused smile. “You were a perfect gentleman.”

“One tries,” Mycroft said. “And now, I’m off…”

“Holmes?” Lestrade flushed, and said again, more hesitantly, “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Dinner would be great. Friday at eight is fine.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll see you there, then.”

Lestrade smiled back. “Yeah.”

“Very good, then.” The butterflies were flying victory rolls and loop-de-loops, but it didn’t leave Mycroft nauseous this time. He smiled stupidly. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

And it was a good night, Mycroft thought with a quiet smile, as his car pulled away from the curb and his chauffeur headed them home. A very good night indeed.


End file.
